Page 11 of Privilege
I think of Rich. Who holds my hand when we walk to the coffee shop, and shamelessly orders root beer floats which he pretends he’ll share with me but he doesn’t. Who comes home from lacrosse practice physically exhausted, but stays up to study and even manages to stay awake long enough for me to paw at him.
I wonder what these women think about when they smile. I get the impression it isn’t root beer and being fucked raw.
“What does your family do, Cara?” Jamie asked me at one point.
“My mom is a teacher. My dad is a truck driver.”
“Like… he’s a truck driver?” Jamie’s voice was dripping with contempt.
I shrugged. “It was fun when I was a kid. We’d load up the dog—we had a husky named Juno—and listen to audiobooks while he drove all over the country. I got great marks in geography.”
“Richie is allergic to dogs,” Evelyn said. And then they went back to ignoring me.
When we finally ascend the insanely grand staircase to bed, I feel like I’ve been put through a meat grinder. I’m ready to pass out face-first on the expensive duvet despite it still being light outside.
“Cara,” Rich says, as I reach awkwardly behind me, trying to undo the zipper of the stupid dress.
“It’s okay, Rich. I understand.” And I do. Ireallydo. If I’d grown up in this place, with these people, I wouldn't talk about them either.
Rich grips the zipper and I let my arms hang slack. “I’m sorry about Dane,” he says.
I pause, mentally hesitating for a moment. If I was expecting an entirely unnecessary apology, it would have been for his mother, not his brother. There was something innately protective about what Dane did, something big brotherly that Rich clearly doesn’t see. But I see it.
I see a lot.
I think about the two of them chest to chest, nose to nose. For a moment—just for one second—it looked more like a lovers quarrel than a brotherly rivalry.
Rich draws down the zipper of my dress, fingertips blazing a fiery trail along my spine. He pushes the dress apart and eases it down my body, where it slips to the floor in a heap.
Hands on my hips, lips on my neck, he says “You’re thinking about my brother.”
“I’m thinking about both of you,” I breathe.
He pauses and I stiffen.Oh fuck, I didn’t mean it like that—I didn’t mean—
His right palm settles between my breasts, and he pulls me backwards into his front by my sternum. “Is that so,” he murmurs in my ear. He presses his hips forward, easing his cock against my ass.
“Rich, I didn’t mean—”
He shoves me forward across the room, his hand on my chest the only thing keeping me from tipping over.
I expect him to steer me to the bed but he doesn’t. Instead he lines us up with the giant antique mirror in the corner, his face hot, and dark, andlooming over my shoulder. He unhooks my strapless bra and tosses it aside, his chest heaving against my back.
“Rich…”
“Look at yourself,” he says.
I open my mouth to protest, to say something likewe should talk about this, but his expression saysdon’t you fucking dare.I close my mouth, and turn my attention to the mirror.
He dwarfs me from behind, his large hand splayed across my chest. My nipples tighten at the sight of us, at his eyes locked on my core, fingers inching away from my hip bone and towards the edge of my plain cotton panties.
He caresses the underside of my breast. My head lolls backwards into his pecs as he pinches and rolls my nipples slowly, firmly,exactly the way I like.
“Look at you. Look at what everyone sees when they look at you.” His voice is gravelly and low.
My chest heaves. I feel knocked off-balance; this is so unlike Rich. I’ve never seen him like this.Hard.Demanding.
“Look at whathesees when he looks at you.”
